IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


■^  1^    112.2 
Mi    wm       

i "-  IIIM 


1.8 


'•-    !!!!l.6 


V] 


^ 


72 


// 


o 


7 


/A 


iV 


CIHM/ICMH 
Microfiche 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Histoiicai  Microreproductions  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 

1980 


Technical  Notes  /  Notes  techniques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Physical 
features  of  this  copy  which  may  alter  any  of  the 
images  in  the  reproduction  are  checked  below. 


L'Instltut  a  micrcfamd  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6td  possible  de  se  procurer.  Certains 
ddfauts  susceptibles  de  nuire  d  la  quality  de  la 
reproduction  sont  notis  ci-dessous. 


D 
D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couvertures  de  couleur 


Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


D 
D 


Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 


Coloured  plates/ 
Planches  en  couleur 


□ 


''ages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachetdes  ou  piqudes 


D 


Show  through/ 
Transparence 


m 


Tight  binding  (may  cause  Shadows  or 
distortion  along  interior  margin)/ 
Reliure  serr^  (peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou 
de  la  distortion  le  long  de  la  marge 
int^rieure) 


D 


Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 


n 


Additional  comments/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires 


Bibliographic  r«ote8  /  Notes  bibliographiques 


n 

D 
D 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


Plates  missing/ 

Des  planches  manquent 


D 
D 
D 


Pagination  incorrect/ 
Erreurs  de  pagination 


Pages  missing/ 

Des  pages  manquent 


Maps  missing/ 

Des  cartes  gdographiques  manquent 


D 


Additional  comments/ 

Coim^    .itaires  suppldmentaires 


ire 

ains 

lela 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche  shall 
contain  the  symbol  —^(meaning  CONTINUED"), 
or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"),  whichever 
applies. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  graiid  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetd  de  I'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filrnage. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaTtra  sur  la  der- 
nidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le  cas: 
le  symbole  — ^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le  symbole 
V  signifie  "FIN". 


The  original  coj  y  was  borrowed  from,  and 
filmed  with,  the  kind  consent  of  the  following 
institution: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exemplaire  filmd  fut  reproduit  grfice  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de  I'dtablissement  prdteur 
suivant  : 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


Maps  or  plates  too  large  to  be  entirely  included 
In  one  exposure  are  filmed  beginning  in  the 
upper  l«ft  hand  corner,  left  to  right  and  top  to 
bottom,  as  many  frames  as  required.  The 
following  diagrams  illustrate  the  method: 


Les  cartes  ou  les  planches  trop  grandes  pour  dtre 
reproduites  en  un  seul  clichd  sont  filmdes  d 
partir  de  Tangle  supdrieure  gauche,  de  gt\uche  d 
droite  et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Le  diagramme  suivant 
illustre  la  mdthode  : 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

vmm 


W>P 


Behind  the  Arras 


I 


:\ 


I; 


11, 


in 


i 


I         ! 


Behind  the  Arras 

A  Book  of  the 

Unseen 


.): 


1 


By    Bliss    Carman 


With  Designs  by  T.  B.  Meteyard 


I 


(ij 


Boston  and  New  York 

Lamson,  Wolffe,  and  Company 

MDCCCXCV 


44956 


Copyright,  1895, 

By  Lamson,  Wolffe,  &  Co. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Contents 


Behind  the  Arras 

Fancy's  Fool 

The  Moondial 

The  Face  in  the  Stream 

The  Cruise  of  the  Galleon 

A  Song  before  Sailing 

In  the  "Wings 

The  Red  Wolf 

The  Faithless  Lover 

The  Crimson  House 

The  Lodger 

Beyond  the  Gamut 

The  Juggler 

Hack  and  He^v 

The  Night  Exprt.  3 

The  Dustman 

The  Sleepers 

At  the  Granite  Gate 

Exit  Anima 


Page  I 
16 

19 

23 
29 

32 

35 

37 

44 
46 

49 
66 

81 

85 

87 

91 

94 
96 

100 


I 


i 


To  G.  H.  B. 

**  I  shut  myself  in  with  my  soul, 
And  the  shapes  come  eddying  forth." 


m 


ill 


m 


M* 


•J 


TT 


i 


JV 


h 


i 


Behind  the  Arras 

I  LIKE  the  old  house  tolerably  well, 
Where  I  must  dwell 
Like  a  familiar  gnome ; 
And  yet  I  never  shall  feel  quite  at  home : 
I  love  to  roam. 

Day  after  day  I  loiter  and  explore 

From  door  to  door ; 

So  many  treasures  lure 

The  curious  mind.   What  histories  obscure 

They  must  immure ! 

I  hardly  know  which  room  I  care  for  best ; 

This  fronting  west, 

With  the  strange  hills  in  view, 

Where  the  great  sun  goes,  —  where  I  may 

go  too, 
When  my  lease  is  through,  — 

Or  this  one  for  the  morning  and  the  east, 

Where  a  man  may  feast 

His  eyes  on  looming  s'lils. 

And  be  the  first  to  catch  their  foreign  hails 

Or  spy  their  bales. 

Behind 
The 
X  Arras 


.■(I 


M. 


i 


I 


^ 


■ 


\3 


Then  the  pale  summer  twilights  towards  the 

pole! 
It  thrills  my  soul 
With  wonder  and  delight, 
When  gold-green  shadows  walk  the  world 

at  night, 
So  still,  so  bright. 

There  at  the  window  many  a  time  of  year. 

Strange  faces  peer. 

Solemn  though  not  unkind, 

Their  wits  in  search  of  something  left  behind 

Time  out  of  mind ; 

As  if  they  once  had  lived  here,  and  stole  back 

To  the  window  crack 

For  a  peep  which  seems  to  say, 

"Good  fortune,  brother,  in  your  house  of 

clay!" 
And  then,  **  Good  day !  ** 

I  hear  their  footsteps  on  the  gravel  walk. 

Their  scraps  of  talk. 

And  hurrying  after,  reach 

Only  the  crazy  sea-drone  of  the  beach 

In  endless  speech. 


Behind 

The 

Arras 


■  •?? 


he  world 


itole  back 


And  often  when  the  autumn  noons  are  still, 

By  swale  and  hill 

I  see  their  gipsy  signs, 

Trespassing  somewhere  on  my  border  lineiS ; 

With  what  designs  ? 

I  forth  afoot ;  but  when  I  reach  the  place, 

Hardly  a  trace, 

Save  the  soft  purple  haze 

Of  smouldering  camp-fires,  any  hint  betrays 

Who  went  these  ways. 

Or  tatters  of  pale  aster  blue,  descried 

By  the  roadside. 

Reveal  whither  they  fled ; 

Or  the  swamp  maples,  here  and  there  a  shred 

Of  Indian  red. 


\ 


t 


But  most  of  all,  the  marvellous  tapestry 
Engrosses  me. 

Where  such  strange  things  are  rife, 
Fancies  of  beasts  and  flowers,  and  love  and 

strife, 
Woven  to  the  life ; 

Degraded  shapes  and  splendid  seraph  forms. 
And  teeming  swarms 

Behind 

3  The 

Arras 


II 


I       ^.^liiiii  11-  I 


i 


/: 


■ 


Of  creatures  gauzy  dim 

That  cloud  the  dusk,  and  painted  fish  that 

swim, 
At  the  weaver's  whim ; 

And  wonderful  birds  that  wheel  and  hang  in 

the  air ; 
And  beings  with  hair, 
And  moving  eyes  in  the  face, 
And   white  bone  teeth  and  hideous  grins, 

who  race 
From  place  to  place ; 

They  build  great  temples  to  their  John-a-nod, 

And  fume  and  plod 

To  deck  themselves  with  gold, 

And  paint  themselves  like  chattels  to  be  sold, 

Then  turn  to  mould. 

Sometimes  they  seem  almost  as  real  as  I ; 

I  heat  them  sigh  ; 

I  see  them  bow  with  grief. 

Or  dance  for  joy  like  an  aspen  leaf ; 

But  that  is  brief. 

They  have  mad  wars  and  phantom  mar- 
riages ; 

Behind 

The  . 

Arras  T 


V<. 


fish  that 


d  hang  in 


us  grins, 


in-a-nod, 


0  be  sold, 


il  as  I ; 


>m  mar- 


Nor  seem  to  guess 

There  are  dimensions  still, 

Beyond  thought's  reach,  though  not  beyond 

love's  will. 
For  soul  to  fill. 

And  some  I  call  my  friends,  and  make  believe 

Their  spirits  grieve. 

Brood,  and  rejoice  with  mine ; 

I  talk  to  them  in  phrases  quaint  and  fine 

Over  the  wine ; 

I  tell  them  all  my  secrets ;  touch  their  hands ; 

One  understands 

Perhaps.    How  hard  he  tries 

To  speak !  And  yet  those  glorious  mild  eyes, 

His  best  replies ! 

I  even  have  my  cronies,  one  or  two, 

My  cherished  few. 

But  ah,  they  do  not  stay ! 

For  the  sun  fades  them  and  they  pass  away, 

As  I  grow  gray. 

Yet  while  they  last  how  actual  they  seem ! 

Their  faces  beam ; 

I  give  them  all  their  names, 

Behind 
C  The 

^  Arras 


'm 


Bertram    and    Gilbert,    Louis,    Frank    and 

James, 
Each  with  his  aims ; 
One  thinks  he  is  a  poet,  and  'writes  verse 
His  friends  rehearse ; 
Another  is  full  of  law ; 
A  third  sees  pictures  which  his  hand  can 

draw 
Without  a  flaw. 

Strangest  of  all,  they  never  rest.   Day  long 

They  shift  and  throng. 

Moved  by  invisible  will, 

Like  a  great  breath  which  puffs  across  my 

sill, 
And  then  is  still ; 

It  shakes  my  lovely  manikins  on  the  wall ; 

Squall  after  squall. 

Gust  upon  crowding  gust, 

It  sweeps  them  willy  nilly  like  blown  dust 

With  glory  or  lust. 

It  is  the  world-ghost,  the  time-spirit,  come 
None  knows  where  from, 
The  viewless  draughty  tide 


Behind 

The 

Arras 


i 


And  wash  of  being.    I  hear  it  yaw  and  glide, 
And  then  subside, 

Along  these  ghostly  corridors  and  halls 

Like  faint  footfalls ; 

The  hangings  stir  in  the  air ; 

And  when  I  start  and  challenge,  **  Who  goes 

there?" 
It  answers,  **  Where  ?  " 

The  wail  and  sob  and  moan  of  the  sea*s  dirge. 

Its  plangor  and  surge ; 

The  awful  biting  sough 

Of  drifted  snows  along  some  arctic  bluff. 

That  veer  and  luff. 

And  have  the  vacant  boding  human  cry, 

As  they  go  by ;  — 

Is  it  a  banished  soul 

Dredging  the  dark  like  a  distracted  mole 

Under  a  knoll  ? 

Like  some  invisible  henchman  old  and  gray. 

Day  after  day 

I  hear  it  come  and  go, 

With  stealthy  swift  unmeaning  to  and  fro. 

Muttering  low. 


m 

m 

i 


I'i'^ 


Behind 

The 

Arras 


•l 


>, 


'li 


Ceaseless  and  daft  and  terrible  and  blind. 

Like  a  lost  mind. 

I  often  chill  with  fear 

When  I  bethink  me,  What  if  it  should  peer 

At  my  shoulder  here  1 

Perchance    he    drives    the    merry-go-round 

whose  track 
Is  the  zodiac; 

His  name  is  No-man's-friend  ; 
And   his   gabbling    parrot-talk    has    neither 

trend, 
Beginning,  nor  end. 

A  prince  of  madness  too,  I  'd  cry,  **A  rat !  " 

And  lunge  thereat,  — 

Let  out  at  one  swift  thrust 

The  cunning  arch-delusion  of  the  dust 

I  so  mistrust, 

But  that  I  fear  I  should  disclose  a  face 

Wearing  the  trace 

Of  my  own  human  guise. 

Piteous,  unharmful,  loving,  sad,  and  wise. 

With  the  speaking  eyes. 


1  I 


Behind 

The 

Arras 


8 


1 1  would  the  house  were   rid   of  his  grim 
I     pranks, 

i  Moaning  from  banks 
I  Of  pine  trees  in  the  moon, 
f  Startling  the  silence  like  a  demoniac  loon 
[At  dead  of  noon, 

|0r  whispering  his  fool-talk  to  the  leaves 

[About  my  eaves. 

[And  yet  how  can  I  know 

rT  is  not  a  happy  Ariel  masking  so 

|ln  mocking  woe  ? 

*hen  with  a  little  broken  laugh  I  say, 
[Snatching  away 
[The  curtain  where  he  grinned 

My  feverish  sight  thought)  like  a  sin  un- 
sinned, 

Only  the  wind  !  " 

'et  ofter  too  he  steals  so  softly  by, 

1th  half  a  sigh, 

deem  he  must  be  mild, 
''air  as  a  woman,  gentle  as  a  child, 
ind  forest  wild. 


%i 


",  *! 


'■ '  i; 


\ 


•  !« 


-i 


m".l 


Behind 

The 

Arras 


i 


M 


li 


\ 


I 


i  ' 


il  i 


,1. 


y\  I  \ 


Passing  the  door  where  an  old  wind-harp 

swings, 
\A^ith  its  five  strings, 
Contrived  long  years  ago 
By  my  first  predecessor  bent  to  show 
His  handcraft  so, 

He  lays  his  fingers  on  the  aeolian  wire. 

As  a  core  of  fire 

Is  laid  upon  the  blast 

To  kindle  and  glow  and  fill  the  purple  vast 

Of  dark  at  last. 

Weird  wise  and  low,  piercing  and  keen  and 

glad, 
Or  dim  and  sad 
As  a  forgotten  strain 
Born  when  the  broken  legions  of  the  rain 
Swept  through  the  plain  — 

He  plays,  like  some  dread  veiled  mysteri- 

arch, 
Lighting  the  dark. 
Bidding  the  spring  gro"w  warm, 
The  gendering  merge  and  loosing  of  spirit  in 

form. 
Peace  out  of  storm. 


Behind 

The 

Arras 


lO 


n 


H 


wm 


For  music  is  the  sacrament  of  love ; 

He  broods  above 

The  virgin  silence,  till 

She  yields  for  rapture  shuddering,  yearning 

still 
I  To  his  sweet  will. 

I  hear  him  sing,  **  Your  harp  is  like  a  mesh, 

Woven  of  flesh 

And  spread  within  the  shoal 

Of  life,  where  runs  the  tide-race  of  the  soul 

In  my  control. 

["Though  my  wild  way  may  ruin  what  it 

bends. 

It  makes  amends  ^ 

To  the  frail  downy  clocks,         ; 
I  Telling  their  seed  a  secret  that  unlocks 
[The  granite  rocks. 

"The   womb    of    silence    to    the    crave    of 

sound 
Is  heaven  unfound. 
Till  I,  to  soothe  and  slake 
Being's  most  utter  and  imperious  ache, 
Bid  rhythm  awake. 


I'fi^ 


IX 


Behind 

The 

Arras 


m 


« , 


^ 


'  f  ' 


'<  If  with  such  agonies  of  bliss,  my  kin, 

I  enter  in 

Your  prison  house  of  sense, 

With  what  a  joyous  freed  intelligence 

I  shall  go  hence." 

I  need  no  more  to  guess  the  weaver's  name, 

Nor  ask  his  aim, 

Who  hung  each  hall  and  room 

With  swarthy-tinged  vermilion  upon  gloom ; 

I  know  that  loom. 

Give  me  a  little  space  and  time  enough, 

From  ravelings  rough 

I  could  revive,  reweave, 

A  fabric  of  beauty  art  might  well  believe 

Were  past  retrieve. 

O  men  and  women  in  that  rich  design, 

Sleep-soft,  sun-fine. 

Dew-tenuous  and  free, 

A  tone  of  the  infinite  wind-themes  of  the  sea, 

Borne  in  to  me. 

Reveals  how  you  were  woven  to  the  might 
Of  shadow  and  light. 
You  are  the  dream  of  One 


Behind 

The 

Arras 


12 


V,. 


Who  loves  to  haunt  and  yet  appears  to  shun 
My  door  in  the  sun  ; 

As  the  white  roving  sea  tern  fleck  and  skim 

The  morning's  rim ; 

Or  the  dark  thrushes  clear 

Their  flutes  of  music  leisurely  and  sheer, 

Then  hush  to  hear. 

I  know  him  when  the  last  red  brands  of  day 

Smoulder  away, 

And  when  the  vernal  showers 

Bring  back  the  heart  to  all  my  valley  flowers 

In  the  soft  hours. 


i 


O  hand  of  mine  and  brain  of  mine,  be  yours, 

While  time  endures, 

To  acquiesce  and  learn  ! 

For  what  we  best  may  dare  and  drudge  and 

yearn, 
Let  soul  discern.  . 

So,  fellows,  we  shall  reach  the  gusty  gate, 

Early  or  late. 

And  part  without  remorse, 

A  cadence  dying  down  unto  its  source 

In  music's  course ; 


13 


Behind 

The 

Arras 


n 


<  !    i 


m 


^11 


.  * 


I 


m 

I'd. 


II 


'A 


n 


M  t 


ll 


You  to  the  perfect  rhythms  of  flowers  and 

birds, 
Colors  and  words, 
The  heart-beats  of  the  earth, 
To  be  remoulded  always  of  one  worth 
From  birth  to  birth ; 

I  to  the  broken  rhythm  of  thought  and  man, 

The  sweep  and  span 

Of  memory  and  hope 

About  the  orbit  where  they  still  must  grope 

For  wider  scope, 

To  be  through  thousand   springs  restored,; 

renewed. 
With  love  imbrued. 
With  increments  of  will 
Made  strong,  perceiving  unattainment  still 
From  each  new  skill. 

Always    the    flawless    beauty,    always    the| 

chord 
Of  the  Overword, 
Dominant,  pleading,  sure, 
No  truth  too  small  to  save  and  make  endure. 
No  good  too  poor ! 


Behind 

The 

Arraa 


H 


h  M 


I',  p 


►wers  and, 


And  since  no  mortal  can  at  last  disdain 

That  sweet  refrain, 

But  lets  go  strife  and  care, 

Borne  like  a  strain  of  bird  notes  on  the  air, 

The  wind  knows  where ; 


1 


Some  quiet  April  evening  soft  and  strange, 
and  man,   J  When  comes  the  change 

No  spirit  can  deplore, 

I  shall  be  one  with  all  I  was  before, 
ist  grope     1  In  death  once  more. 


ih 


111 


II' 


15 


Behind 

The 

Arraa 


'4 

i 


)  n 


Fancy's  Fool 

«<  ^^ORNEL,  cornel,  green  and  white, 

v./  Spreading  on  the  forest  floor, 
Whither  went  my  lost  delight 
Through  the  sUent  door  ?  " 

**  Mortal,  mortal,  overfond, 
How  come  you  at  all  to  know 
There  be  any  joys  beyond 
Blisses  here  and  now  ?  " 

*«  Cornel,  cornel,  white  and  cool, 
Many  a  mortal,  I  've  heard  tell, 
^A^ho  is  only  Fancy's  fool 
Knows  that  secret  well." 

**  Mortal,  mortal,  what  would  you 
With  that  beauty  once  was  yours  ? 
Perishable  is  the  dew^, 
And  the  dust  endures." 

**  Cornel,  cornel,  pierce  me  not 
With  your  sweet,  reserved  disdain ! 


Fancy's 
Fool 


i6 


i,  i 


in' 


Whisper  me  of  things  forgot 
That  shall  be  again." 

**  Mortal,  we  are  kinsmen,  led 
By  a  hope  beyond  our  reach. 
Know  you  not  the  word  unsaid 
Is  the  flower  of  speech  ?  " 

All  the  snowy  blossoms  faded, 
While  the  scarlet  berries  grew ; 
And  all  summer  they  evaded 
Anything  they  knew. 

**  Cornel,  cornel,  green  and  red 
Flooring  for  the  forest  wide, 
W^hither  dow^n  the  ways  of  dread 
Went  my  starry-eyed  ?  " 

"  Mortal,  mortal,  is  there  found 
Any  fruitage  half  so  fair 
In  the  dim  world  underground 
As  there  grows  in  air?  " 

"  Wilding  cornel,  you  can  guess 
Nothing  of  eternal  pain. 
Growing  there  in  quietness 
In  the  sun  and  rain." 


r 

! 


I 


f- 


17 


Fancy's 
Fool 


M 


\i  1 


•I 


n 


li 


u' 


,ti  M 


"  Mortal,  where  your  heart  would  be 
Not  a  wanderer  may  go, 
But  he  shares  the  dark  with  me 
Underneath  the  snow." 

And  the  scarlet  berries  scattered 
With  the  coming  on  of  fall ; 
Not  to  one  of  them  it  mattered 
Anything  at  all. 


Fancy's 
Pool 


i8 


■■iapqa 


^™flp 


^E 

r^y«^-;  -tf: 

?-3.'.?...?^rr7;= — ■■; ■'      ^ 

H 

"     »[>f 

would  be  ^P 

^■^"  "        ■    "       ^ 

^■sf 

^^^\         /f           ''■"!'" 

Bi»  '--  -  =''^rj' 

1  me          ^^ 

'  ■—^ J 

H 

^^^^ 

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tered         H^ 

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red            B| 

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i 

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^Hl  1 

S 

^^s 

x8 


The  Moondial 

IRON  and  granite  and  rust, 
In  a  crumbling  garden  old, 
Where  the  roses  are  paler  than 

dust 
And   the   lilies   are   green  with 
gold, 

Under  the  racing  moon, 
Inconscious  of  war  or  crime. 
In  a  strange  and  ghostly  noon, 
It  marks  the  oblivion  of  time. 

The  shadow  steals  through  its 

arc, 
Still  as  a  frosted  breath. 


m 


J 


if'  '' 

Mi 

I 


fH 


3Z 


/fU:^ 


Fitful,  gleaming,  and  dark 

As  the  cold  frustration  of  death. 


Ii 


,-i 


M 


» CI  J 


i 


i  I 


I 


Mi 


1 


But  where  the  shadow  may  fall, 
W^hether  to  hurry  or  stay, 
It  matters  little  at  all 
To  those  who  come  that  way. 

For  this  is  the  dial  of  them 
That  have  forgotten  the  world. 
No  more  through  the  mad  day-dream 
Of  striving  aad  reason  hurled. 

Their  heart  as  a  little  child 
Only  remembers  the  v^orth 
Of  beauty  and  love  and  the  wild 
Dark  peace  of  the  elder  earth. 

It  registers  the  morrows 
Of  lovers  and  w^inds  and  streams. 
And  the  face  of  a  thousand  sorrows 
At  the  postern  gate  of  dreams. 

When  the  first  low  laughter  smote 
Through  Lilith,  the  mother  of  joy. 
And  died  and  revived  from  the  throat 
Of  Helen,  the  harpstring  of  Troy, 


The 
Moondial 


ao 


21 


And  wandering  on  through  the  years. 
From  the  sobbing  rain  and  the  sea. 
Caught  sound  of  the  world's  gray  tears 
Or  sense  of  the  sun's  gold  glee, 

Whenever  the  wild  control 
Burned  out  to  a  mortal  kiss, 
And  the  shuddering  storm-swept  soul 
Climbed  to  its  acme  of  bliss, 

The  green-gold  light  of  the  dead 
Stood  still  in  purple  space. 
And  a  record  blind  and  dread 
Was  graved  on  the  dial's  face. 

And  once  in  a  thousand  years 
Some  youth  Tvho  loved  so  well 
The  gods  had  loosed  him  from  fears 
In  a  vision  of  blameless  hell, 

Has  gone  to  the  dial  to  read 
Those  signs  in  the  outland  tongue, 
"Written  beyond  the  need 
Of  the  simple  and  the  young. 

For  immortal  life,  they  say, 
Were  his  who,  loving  so. 


The 
Moondial 


||fM 


I 


•  ■    ■ )  I 


ii 


V  '■ 


1 


If 


^1!l 


II 


/I 


:■ 


Si ) 


ii  i 


^.il 


J) 
i'i! 


Could  explain  the  writing  away 
As  a  legend  written  in  snow. 

But  always  his  innocent  eyes 
Were  frozen  into  the  stone. 
From  that  awful  first  surprise 
His  soul  must  return  alone. 

In  the  morning  there  he  lay 
Dead  in  the  sun's  warm  gold. 
And  no  man  knows  to  this  day 
W^hat  the  dim  moondial  told. 


The 

Mooadial 


22 


'««W 


i 


II 


m 


1   li 


,11, 


)j 


V 


M    i 


1 


Y 


c 


I  I 


I'. 


9 


'■■     n 


:\ 


If 


«*  I  am  thy  dream,  thou  poor  worn  face, 
And  this  is  thy  heart's  abiding  place. 

"  Too  much  in  the  world,  come  back  and  be 
Once  more  my  dream-fellow  with  me, 

**  In  the  far-off  untarnished  years 

Before  thy  furrows  were  v^ashed  with  tears, 

"  Or  ever  thy  serious  creature  eyes 
Were  aged  with  a  mist  of  memories. 

»*  Hast  thou  forgotten  the  long  ago 
In  the  garden  where  I  used  to  flow, 

«*  Among  the  hills,  with  the  maple  tree 
And  the  roses  blowing  over  me  ?  — 

**  I  who  am  now  but  a  wraith  of  this  river. 
Forsaken  of  thee  forever  and  ever, 

**  Who  then  was  thine  image  fair,  forecast 
In  the  heart  of  the  water  rimpling  past. 

•<  Out  in  the  wide  of  the  summer  zone 
I  lulled  and  allured  thee  apart  and  alone. 


The  Face 
In  the 
Stream 


24 


%^    ,  t.. 


*'  The  azure  gleam  and  the  golden  croon 
And  the  grass  with  the  flaky  roses  strewn. 

«« There  you  would  lie  and  lean  above  me, 
The  more  you  lingered  the  more  to  love  me, 

«« Till  I  became,  as  the  year  grew  old. 

Thy  fairest  day-dream's  fashion  and  mould, 

"  Deep  in  the  water  twilight  there. 
Smiling,  elusive,  wonderful,  fair, 

*'  The  beautiful  visage  of  thy  clear  soul 
Set  in  eternity's  limpid  shoal, 

**  Thy  spirit's  countenance,  the  trace 
Of  dawning  God  in  the  human  face. 

"  And  when  yellow  leaves  came  down 
Through  the  silent  mornings  one  by  one 

"  To  the  frosty  meadow,  as  they  fell 
Thy  pondering  heart  said,  *  All  is  well ; 


"  *  Aye,  all  is  best,  for  I  stake  my  life 
Beyond  the  boundaries  of  strife,' 


25 


The  Pace 
In  the 
Stream 


Ml 


I  • 


**  And  then  thy  feet  returned  no  more,  — 
While  years  went  over  the  garden  floor, 

**  With  frost  and  maple,  with  rose  and  dew, 
In  the  world  thy  river  wandered  through ;  — 

**  Came  never  again  to  revive  and  recall 
Thy  youth  from  its  water  burial. 

"  But  now  thy  face  is  battle-dark  ; 

The  strife  of  the  world  has  graven  a  mark 

•*  About  the  lips  that  are  no  more  mine, 
Too  sweet  to  forget,  too  strong  to  repine. 

**  With  the  ends  of  the  earth  for  thy  garden 

now. 
What  solace  and  what  reward  hast  thou  ?  " 

Then  he  of  the  earth's  sun-traversed  side 
To  him  of  the  under- world  replied, 

**  O  glad  mysterious  face  in  the  stream. 
My  lost  illusion,  my  summer  dream, 

**  Thou  fairer  self  of  a  fonder  time, 
A  far  imperishable  clime. 


The  Face 
In  the 
Stream 


26 


"  For  thy  dear  sake  I  have  fared  alone 
And  fronted  failure  and  housed  with  none. 

"  What  youth  was  that,  when  the  world  was 

green, 
In  the  lovely  mythus  Greek  and  clean, 

"  Was  doomed  with  his  flowery  kin  to  bide, 
A  blown  white  star  by  the  river  side, 

*'  And  no  more  follow  the  sun,  foot  free. 
Too  long  enamoured  of  one  like  thee  ? 

"  Shall  God  who  abides  in  the  patient  flower, 
The  painted  dust  sustained  by  his  power, 

**  Refuse  to  the  wing  of  the  dragonfly 
His  sanction  over  the  open  sky,  — 

**  A  frail  detached  and  wandering  thing 
Torn  loose  from  the  blossomy  life  of  spring  ? 

"  And  this  is  man,  the  myriad  one. 
Dust's  flower  and  time's  ephemeron. 

**  And  I  who  have  followed  the  wander-list 
For  a  glimpse  of  beauty,  a  wraith  in  the  mist. 


M  111  i 


II 


li 


27 


The  Face 
In  the 
Stream 


n — rr 


!|( 


f ' 

1'' 

\V 

1 

] 

■\ 

1 

1 

\ 

«  Shall  be  spilt  at  last  and  return  to  peace, 
As  dust  which  the  hands  of  the  wind  release. 

**  This  is  my  solace  and  my  reward, 
Who  have  drained  life's  dregs  from  a  broken 
shard." 

Wise  and  grave  was  the  water  face, 
A  youth  grown  man  in  a  little  space  ; 

While  the  wayworn  face  by  the  river  side 
Grew  gentler-lipped  and  shadowy-eyed  ; 

For  he  heard  like  a  sea-horn  summoning  him 
That  sound  from  the  world's  end  vast  and 
dim, 

Where  the  river  \vent  wandering  out  so  far 
Through  a  gate  in  the  mountain  left  ajar. 

The  sea  birds  love  and  the  land  birds  flee, 
The  large  bleak  voice  of  the  burly  sea. 


The  Pace 

In  the 
Stream 


28 


r  side 
^ed  ; 

ling  him 
/ast  and 


t  so  far 
ajar, 

s  flee, 


*  I' 


'it 


hjli 

i 


f 


HI 


i  i  <' 


i  ! 


'Morning,  shipmates  !  'Drift  and  chartless  ? 
Liaded  deep  and  rolling  hard  ? 
Never  guessed,  outworn  and  heartless, 
There  was  land  so  close  aboard  ? 

Ice  on  every  shroud  and  eyelet, 
Rocking  in  the  windy  trough  ? 
No  more  panic  ;  Man  *s  your  pilot ; 
Turns  the  flood,  and  we  are  off! 

At  the  story  of  disaster. 
From  the  continents  of  sleep, 
I  am  come  to  be  your  master 
And  put  out  into  the  deep. 

^A^hat  tide  current  struck  you  hither. 
Beating  up  the  storm  of  years  ? 
\A^here  are  those  who  stood  to  weather 
These  uncharted  gulfs  of  tears  ? 

Did  your  fellows  all  drive  under 
In  the  maelstrom  of  the  sun, 
V^hile  you  only,  for  a  wonder. 
Rode  the  wash  you  could  not  shun  ? 

We  *11  crowd  sail  across  the  sea-line, — 
Clear  this  harbor,  reef  and  buoy. 


i 


The  Cruise 
Of  the 
Galleon 


30 


\  > 


Bowling  down  an  open  bee-line 
For  the  latitudes  of  joy; 

Till  beyond  the  zones  of  sorrow, 
Past  griefs  haven  in  the  night, 
Some  large  simpler  world  shall  morrow 
This  pale  region's  northern  light. 

Not  a  fear  but  all  the  sea-room, 
Wherein  time  is  but  a  bay, 
Yet  shall  sparkle  for  our  lee-room 
In  the  vast  Altrurian  day. 

And  the  dauntless  seaworn  spirit 
Shall  awake  to  know  there  are 
What  dominions  to  inherit. 
Anchored  off  another  star ! 


\ 

"11 

lilfl 

31 


The  Cruise 
Of  the 
Galleon 


!■ 


J 


Is  pale,  and  palpable,  and  cold  ; 
I  am  as  one  grown  old. 

I  call  from  room  to  room. 
Through  the  deserted  gloom  ; 
The  echoes  are  all  words  I  know. 
Lost  in  some  long  ago. 

I  prowl  from  door  to  door, 
And  find  no  comrade  more. 
The  wolfish  fear  that  children  feel 
Is  snuffing  at  my  heel. 

I  hear  the  hollow  sound 

Of  a  great  ship  coming  round. 

The  thunder  of  tackle  and  the  tread 

Of  sailors  overhead. 


t 


•7 


tvV? 


33 


That  stormy-blown  hulloo 

Has  orders  for  me,  too. 

I  see  thee,  hand  at  mouth,  and  hark, 

My  captain  of  the  dark. 

O  wind  of  the  great  East, 

By  whom  we  are  released 

From  this  strange  dusty  port  to  sail 

Beyond  our  fellows'  hail, 


A  Sonif 

Before 

Sailing 


m 


I' 


'.A: 


I",  1-' 


'I 


II 


ti 


1     ^ 


}l 


!i. 


*   f 


M' 


^.'! 


M 


A  Song 

Before 

Sailing 


Under  the  stars  that  keep 

The  entry  of  the  deep, 

Thy  somber  voice  brings  up  the  sea's 

Forgotten  melodies ; 

And  I  have  no  more  need 
Of  bread,  or  wine,  or  creed, 
Bound  for  the  colonies  of  time 
Beyond  the  farthest  prime. 

Wind  of  the  dead  men's  feet, 
Blow  through  the  empty  street ! 
The  last  adventurer  am  I, 
Then,  world,  good-by ! 


34 


II 


■■f 
.1 


In  the  Wings 


THE  play  is  Life  ;  and  this  round  earth, 
The  narrow  stage  whereon 
We  act  before  an  audience 
Of  actors  dead  and  gone. 

There  is  a  figure  in  the  wings 
That  never  goes  aw^ay, 
And  though  I  cannot  see  his  face, 
I  shudder  while  I  play. 

His  shadow  looms  behind  me  here. 
Or  capers  at  my  side  ; 
And  when  I  mouth  my  lines  in  dread^ 
Those  scornful  lips  deride. 

Sometimes  a  hooting  laugh  breaks  out. 
And  startles  me  alone ; 
While  all  my  fellows,  wondering 
At  my  stage-fright,  play  on. 

I  fear  that  when  my  Exit  comes, 
I  shall  encounter  there, 


v 


t\ 


■  I 


35 


In  the 
Wings 


i' 


TT 


1         1 

■I 

li  I 


\  : 


Stronger  than  fa  te,  or  time,  or  love, 
And  sterner  than  despair, 

The  Final  Critic  of  the  craft, 
As  stage  tradition  tells  ; 
And  yet  —  perhaps  'twill  only  be 
The  jester  with  his  bells. 


i 


\ 


;1 


'  i 


n 


\i%. 


In  the 
Wingt 


36 


i 


The  Red  Wolf 

WITH   the  fall   of  the  leaf 
comes  the  wolf,  wolf,  wolf, 
The  old  red  wolf  at  my  door. 
And   my  hateful  yellow  dwarf, 
with     his     hideous     crooked 
laugh, 
Cries  *' Wolf,   wolf,  wolf!"  at 
my  door. 

With  the  still  of  the  frost  comes 

the  wolf,  wolf,  wolf. 
The  gaunt  n  d  wolf  at  my  door. 
He's  as  tall  as   a   Great  Dane, 

with  his  grizzly  russet  mane ; 
And  he  haunts  the  silent  woous 

at  my  door. 


I/^-^ 


'1 


{( 


'I  I 


mi 


i.  p 


I 


i   li 


i     ,/ 


FT 


m 


m 


il 


V 


i 


f  ? 


i  \ 


The  scarlet  maple  leaves  and  the  sweet  ripe 

nuts, 
May  strew  the  forest  glade  at  my  door, 
But  my  cringing  cunning   dwarf,   with   his 

slavered  kacking  laugh, 
Cries  "  Wolf,  wolf,  wolf!  "  at  my  door. 

The  violets  may  come,  the  pale  wind-flowers 

blow. 
And  tremble  by  the  stream  at  my  door ; 
But  my  dwarf  will  never  cease,  until  his  last 

release, 
From  his  "  Wolf,  wolf,  wolf!  "  at  the  door. 

The  long  sweet  April  wind  may  woo  the 

world  from  grief. 
And  tell  the  old  tales  at  my  door  ; 
The  rainbirds  in  the  rain  may  plead  their  far 

refrain. 
In  the  glad  young  year  at  my  door  ; 

And   in  the   quiet   sun,   the   silly   partridge 

brood 
In  the  red  pine  dust  by  my  door ; 
Yet  my  squinting  runty  dwarf,  with  his  lewd 

ungodly  laugh, 
Cries  **  Wolf,  wolf,  wolf!  "  at  my  door. 


The 
Red 

Wolf 


38 


(?|A 


et  ripe 


th   his 


lOwers 

» 
lis  last 

door. 

DO  the 

eir  far 


rtridge 


5  lewd 


I  'm  his   master  (and   his   slave,   with   his 

'« Wolf,  wolf,  wolf!") 
As  he  squats  in  the  sun  at  my  door. 
There  morn  and  noon   and   night,  with  his 

cuddled  low  delight, 
He  watches  for  the  wolf  at  my  door. 

The  wind  may  parch  his  hide,  or  freeze  him 

to  the  bone. 
While  the  wolf  walks  far  from  the  door  ; 
Still    year  on    year  he   sits,   with   his   five 

unholy  wits, 
And  watches  for  the  wolf  at  the  door. 

But  the  fall  of  the  leaf  and  the  starting  of  the 

bud 
Are  the  seasons  he  loves  by  the  door ; 
Then  his  blood  begins  to  rouse,  this  Caliban 

I  house, 
And  it 's  "  Wolf,  wolf,  wolf!  "  at  the  door. 

In  the  dread  lone  of  the  night  I  can  hear  him 

snuff  the  sill ; 
Then  it 's  "  Wolf,  wolf,  wolf !  "  at  the  door ; 
His  damned  persistent  bark,  like  a  husky's 

in  the  dark, 
His  "  Wolf,  wolf,  wolf!  "  at  the  door. 


39 


The 
Red 
Wolf 


<\  I  il 


it( 


■!  I 


/' 


/  .    li 


1>/  M 


I         i 


^^,. 


i\ 


')!ii   i1 


m 


"( 


it; 


I  1^ 


') 


'{■ 


h'i 


11  ! 


i 


I  have  tried  to  rid  the  house  of  the  misbegot- 
ten spawn ; 

But  he  skulks  like  a  shadow  at  my  door. 

With  the  same  uncanny  glee  as  when  he 
came  to  me 

With  his  first  cry  of  wolf  at  my  door. 

I  curse  him,  and  he  leers  ;  I  kick  him,  and  he 

whines ; 
But  he  never  leaves  the  stone  at  my  door. 
Peep  of  day  or  set  of  sun,  his  croaking 's  never 

done 
Of  the  Red  Wolf  of  Despair  at  my  door. 

But  when  the  night  is  old,  and  the  stars 

begin  to  fade, 
And  silence  walks  the  path  by  my  door, 
Then  is  his  dearest  hour,  his  most  unbridled 

power. 
And  low  comes  his  **  Wolf!  "  at  the  door. 

I  turn  me  in  my  sleep  between  the  night  and 
day. 

While  dreams  throng  the  yard  at  my  door. 

In  my  strong  soul  aware  of  a  grewsome  ter- 
ror there 

Soon  to  knock  with  command  at  my  door. 


The 
Red 
Wolf 


40 


fi 


:     f 


iv' 


Is  it  the  hollow  voice  of  the  census-taker 

Time 
In  his  old  idle  round  from  door  to  door  ? 
Or  only  the  north  wind,  when  all  the  leaves 

are  thinned, 
Come  at  last  with  his  moan  to  my  door  ? 

I  cannot  guess  nor  tell;  only  it  comes  and 

comes, 
As  from  a  vaster  world  beyond  my  door, 
From  centuries  of  eld,  the  death  of  freedom 

knelled, 
A  host  of  mortal  fears  at  my  door. 

Then  I  wake ;  and  joy  and  youth  and  fame 

and  love  and  bliss, 
And  all  the  good  that  ever  passed  my  door, 
Grow  dim,  and  faint  and  fade,  with  the  whole 

world  unmade, 
To  perish  as  the  summer  at  my  door. 

The  crouching  heart  within  me  quails  like  a 

shuddering  thing, 
As  I  turn  on  my  pillow  to  the  door  ; 
Then  in  the  chill  white  dawn,  when  life  is 

half  withdrawn. 
Comes  the  dream-curdling  "  Wolf!  "  at  my 

door. 

The 
._  Red 

4*  Wolf 


i 


\ 


!■! 


Hi 


'  i' ' 


\i 


■I  ;. 


ii. 


i 


Only   my  yellow   dwarf;   (my  servitor  and 

lord !) 
I  hear  him  lift  the  latch  of  my  door  ; 
I  see  his  wobbling  chin  and  his  unrepentant 

grin, 
As  he  lets  his  oafship  in  at  the  door. 

Ae  is  low  and  humped  and  foul,  and  shambles 

like  an  ape ; 
And  stealthily  he  barricades  the  door, 
Then  lays  his  goblin  head  against  my  lonely 

bed. 
With  a  "  Wolf,  wolf,  wolf,"  at  the  door ! 

I  loathe  him,  but  I  feed  him ;    I  *l\  tell  you 

how^  it  was 
(Hear  him   now  with  his  "Wolf!"    at  the 

door !) 
'hat  I  ever  took  him  in ;  he  is  —  he  is  my 

kin. 
And  kin  to  the  wolf  at  the  door ! 

I  loat  ^  him,  yet  he  lives ;  as  God  lets  Satan 

live, 
I  suffer  him  to  slumber  at  my  door, 


The 
Red 
Wolf 


42 


h 


Till  that  long-looked-for  time,  that  splendid 

sudden  prime, 
When  Spring  shall  go  in  scarlet  by  my  door. 

That  day  I  will  arise,  put  my  heel  upon  his 

throat, 
And  squirt  his  yellow  blood  upon  the  door  ; 
Then  watch  him  dying  there,  like  a  spider  in 

his  lair. 
With  a  ♦*  Wolf,  wolf,  wolf  1  "  at  my  door. 

The  great  white  morning  sun  shall  walk  the 

earth  again, 
And  the  children  return  to  my  door, 
I  shall  hear  their  merry  laugh,  and  forget  my 

buried  dwarf. 
As  a  tale  that  is  told  at  the  door. 


■0:     • 


'/ 


Far  from  the  quiet  woods  the  gaunt  red  wolf 

shall  flee. 
As  a  cur  that  is  stoned  from  the  door ; 
And  God's  great  peace  come  back  along  the 

lonely  track, 
To  fill  the  golden  year  at  my  door. 


I'? 


n  •!• 


43 


The 
Red 
Wolf 


h  1  '4 


PTT 


;'ni    f- 


rf!| 


li! 


! 


1  M 


it  < 


•11 


I 
.  L 

\  r  f  ^ 


The  Faithless  Lover 


OLIFE,  dear  Life,  in  this  fair  house 
Long  since  did  I,  it  seems  to  me, 
In  some  mysterious  doleful  way 
Fall  out  of  love  with  thee. 

For,  Life,  thou  art  become  a  ghost, 
A  memory  of  days  gone  by, 
A  poor  forsaken  thing  between 
A  heartache  and  a  sigh. 

And  now,  with  shadows  from  the  hills 
Thronging  the  twilight,  wraith  on  wraith, 
Unlock  the  door  and  let  me  go 
To  thy  dark  rival  Death  1 


II 


O  Heart,  dear  Heart,  in  this  fair  house 
Why  hast  thou  wearied  and  grown  tired. 


The 

Faithless 

Lover 


44 


'^^^mmir^'mmf^mmm 


Between  a  morning  and  a  night 
Of  all  thy  soul  desired  ?  * 

Fond  one,  who  cannot  understand 
Even  these  shadows  on  the  floor, 
Yet  must  be  dreaming  of  dark  loves 
And  joys  beyond  my  door  I 

But  I  am  beautiful  past  all 
The  timid  tumult  of  thy  mood, 
And  thou  returning  not  must  still 
Be  mine  in  solitude. 


45 


The 

Faithless 
JLover 


i 


n 


j;i 


i!/ 


w^^ 


1  „ 


(I 


M 


i 

('I  I 

'  \  i' 

1     i' 

The  Crimson  House 

LOVE  built  a  crimson  house, 
I  know  it  well, 
That  he  might  have  a  home 
"Wherein  to  dwell. 

Poor  Love  that  roved  so  far 
And  fared  so  ill, 
Between  the  morning  star 
And  the  Hollow  Hill, 

Before  he  found  the  vale 
Where  he  could  bide, 
With  memory  and  oblivion 
Side  by  side. 

He  took  the  silver  dew 

And  the  dun  red  clay. 

And  behold  when  he  was  through 

How  fair  were  they ! 

The  braces  of  the  sky 
Were  in  its  girth, 


The 

Crimson 

House 


46 


47 


That  it  should  feel  no  jar 
Of  the  swinging  earth ; 

That  sun  and  wind  might  bleach 
But  not  destroy 
The  house  that  he  had  builded 
For  his  joy. 

**  Here  will  I  stay,"  he  said, 
*'  And  roam  no  more. 
And  dust  when  I  am  dead 
Shall  keep  the  door." 

There  trooping  dreams  by  night 

Go  by,  go  by. 

The  walls  are  rosy  white 

In  the  sun's  eye. 

The  windows  are  more  clear 

Than  sky  or  sea ; 

He  made  them  after  God's 

Transparency. 

It  is  a  dearer  place 
Than  kirk  or  inn  ; 
Such  joy  on  joy  as  there 
Has  never  been. 


'/  * 


The 

Crimson 

House 


if  \ 
'''    I 

''I 

I,;  I 


,(it 


i  'f 


m 


if  I 


There  may  my  longed-for  rest 
And  welcome  be, 
"When  Love  himself  unbars 
The  door  for  me  1 


i 


ill 


i 

1  .' 

'if 

The 

Crimson 
House 


48 


^'' 


■^ 


1  CANNOT  quite  recall 
When  first  he  came, 
So  reticent  and  tall, 
With  his  eyes  of  flame. 

The  neighbors  used  to  say 
(They  know  so  much  !) 
He  looked  to  them  half  way 
Spanish  or  Dutch. 

Outlandish  certainly 

He  is  —  and  queer! 

He  has  been  lodged  with  me 

This  thirty  year ; 


iiifiifrf/i/ifjiifmiiiirriMiiiiiiiiiii«Tiiiuiiiuv 


I 
I 


I' 

i 

1,1 


''i-'^ 


V\\ 


11 


11  '■ 


\ 


\'x\ 


.'•'III 

^ ;  it) 


i- 


w 


I 


All  the  while  (it  seems  absurd !) 
W^e  hardly  have 
Exchanged  a  single  word. 
Miim  as  the  grave ! 

Minds  only  his  own  affairs, 
Goes  out  and  in, 
And  keeps  himself  upstairs 
With  his  violin. 


!,    V 


i   \ 


\]] 


The 

Lodger 


Mum  did  I  say  ?   And  yet 
That  talking  smile 
You  never  can  forget, 
Is  all  the  while 

Full  of  such  sweet  reproofs 
The  darkest  day, 
Like  morning  on  the  roofs 
In  flush  of  May. 

Like  autumn  on  the  hills ; 
At  four  o'clock 

The  sun  like  a  herdsman  spills 
For  drove  and  flock 

Peace  with  their  provender, 
And  they  are  fed. 


50 


f.!\. 


\,  5- 


The  day  without  a  stir 
Lies  warm  and  red. 

Ah,  sir,  the  summer  land 
For  me !   That  is 
Like  living  in  God's  hand, 
Compared  to  this. 

His  smile  so  quiet  and  deep 
Reminds  me  of  it. 
I  see  it  in  my  sleep. 
And  so  I  love  it. 

An  anarchist,  say  some ; 
But  tush,  say  I, 
AVhen  a  man's  heart  is  plumb. 
Can  his  life  be  awry  ? 

Better  than  charity 

And  bigger  too. 

That  heart.   You  've  seen  the  sea  ? 

Of  course.  To  you 

'T  is  common  enough,  no  doubt. 
But  here  in  town, 
With  God's  world  all  shut  out. 
Save  the  leaden  frown 


il'  1)1 


51 


The 
Lodger 


f(" 


*5i 


lui 


i^^ 


\  J 


Of  the  sky,  a  slant  of  rain, 
And  a  straggling  star. 
Such  memories  remain 
The  wonders  they  are. 

Once  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
And  it  was  June     .     .     . 
Now  hear  me  dote !    He  strolls 
Across  my  noon, 

Like  the  sun  that  day,  where  sleeps 
My  soul ;  his  gaze 
Goes  glimmering  down  my  deeps 
Of  yesterdays, 

Searching  and  searching,  till 
Its  light  consumes 
The  reluctant  shapes  that  fill 
Those  purple  glooms. 

Let  others  applaud,  defame. 
And  the  noise  die  down ; 
His  voice  saying  your  name, 
Is  enough  renown. 

Too  patient  pitiful. 
Too  fierce  at  wrong, 


§ 


f 


The 
Lodger 


52 


if 
I 


I 


^■IHB 


To  patronize  the  dull, 
Or  praise  the  strong. 

And  yet  he  has  a  soul 
Of  wrath,  though  pent 
Even  when  that  white  ghoul 
Comes  for  his  rent. 

The  landlord?   Hush!   My  God! 
I  think  the  walls 
Take  notes  to  help  him  prod 
Us  up.   He  galls 

My  very  soul  to  strife. 
With  his  death's-head  face. 
He  is  foul  too  in  his  life. 
Some  hid  disgrace. 

Some  secret  thing  he  does, 
I  warrant  you. 
For  all  his  cheek  to  us 
Is  shaved  so  blue. 


■  1       ! 

r 
1 

1 

k  11 

■|) 

t       ll' 


53 


He  takes  good  care  (by  the  shade 
Of  seven  wives !) 
That  the  undertaker's  trade 
He  lives  by  thrives. 


The 

Lodger 


^'T 


i-i'mti't' 


'■^TtP 


Nor  chick  nor  child  has  he. 
So  servile  smug. 
With  that  cringe  in  his  knee, — 
God  curse  his  lug ! 

But  him,  you  should  have  seen 
Him  yesterday; 

The  landlord's  smirk  turned  green 
At  his  smile.   The  way 

He  served  that  bloodless  fish. 
Were  like  to  freeze  him. 
But  meeting  elsewhere,  pish ! 
He  never  sees  him. 

Yet  such  a  gentleman, 
So  sure  and  slow. 
The  vilest  harridan 
Is  not  too  lo\v, 

If  there  is  pity's  need; 
And  no  man  born. 
For  cruelty  or  greed 
Escapes  that  scorn. 

Most  of  all  things,  it  seems, 
He  loves  the  town. 


11, 


The 
Lodger 


54 


54 


55 


Watching  the  bright-faced  streams 
Go  up  and  down, 

I  have  surprised  him  often 

On  Tremont  street, 

And  marked  the  grave  face  soften, 

The  mouth  grow  sweet. 

In  a  brown  study  over 
The  men  and  women. 
An  unsuspected  rover 
That,  for  our  Common. 

When  the  first  jonquils  come. 
And  spring  is  sold 
On  the  street  corners,  some 
Of  the  pretty  gold 

Is  sure  to  find  its  way 
Home  in  his  hand. 
And  many  a  winter  day 
At  some  cab-stand. 

He  '11  watch  the  cabmen  feed 
The  pigeon  flocks, 
Or  bid  some  liner  speed 
From  the  icy  docks 


The 
Lodger 


.i(     i. 


11 


fl 


f.  i 


^(i 


TTT 


I 


^i 


V  ■V: 


ilil 


m 


I       ;' 


'      ,1 


His  rooms?   I  much  regret 
YoQ  cannot  see 
His  rooms,  but  they  were  let 
With  guarantee 

Of  his  seclusion  there — 
Except  myself. 
Each  morning,  table,  chair, 
Lamp,  hearth,  and  shelf, 

I  rearrange,  refreshen. 

Put  all  to  rights. 

Then  leave  him  in  possession. 

Ah,  but  the  nights. 

The  nights  !   Sir,  if  I  dared 
But  once  set  eye 
To  keyhole,  nor  be  scared, 
From  playing  Paul  Pry, 

I  doubt  not  I  should  learn 
A  wondrous  thing 
Or  two ;  and  in  return 
Go  blind  till  spring. 

The  light  under  his  door 
Is  glory  enough, 


?j  J     J 


The 
Lodger 


56 


I 


\  .i   ^ 


^BiB^ 


56 


57 


It  outshines  any  star 
That  I  know  of. 

Wirrah,  my  lad,  my  lad, 
'Tis  fearsome  strange, 
The  hints  we  all  have  had 
Passing  the  range 

Of  science,  knowledge,  law, 
Or  what  you  will. 
Whose  intangible  touch  of  awe 
Makes  reason  nil. 

Many  a  night  I  start, 
Sudden  awake, 
Feeling  my  smothered  heart 
Flutter  and  quake ; 

Like  an  aspen  at  dead  of  noon, 
When  not  a  breath 
Is  stirring  to  trouble  the  boon 
Valley.  A  wraith 

Or  a  fetch,  it  must  be,  shivers 
The  soul  of  the  tree 
Till  every  leaf  of  it  quivers. 
And  so  with  me. 


The 
Lodger 


\' 


I  i 


t\ 


I 


I  M 


'V 


Was  it  the  shuffle  of  feet 

I  heard  go  by, 

With  muffled  drums  in  the  street  ? 

Was  it  the  cry 

Of  a  rider  riding  the  night 

Into  ashes  and  da'wn, 

With  news  in  his  nostrils  and  fright 

Where  his  hoof-beats  had  gone  ? 

Did  the  pipes,  at  "  Bonny  Dundee," 
Bid  regiments  form  ? 
Did  a  renegade's  soul  get  free 
On  a  wail  of  the  storm  ? 

Did  a  flock  of  wild  geese  honk 
As  they  cleared  the  hill  ? 
Or  only  a  bittern  cronk, 
Then  all  was  still  ? 

Was  it  a  night  stampede 
Of  a  thousand  head  ? 
I  know  I  shook  like  a  reed 
There  on  my  bed. 

Nameless  and  void  and  wild 
Was  the  fear  before  me, 


The 
Lodger 


58 


iV 


mtmmmam 


Ere  I  bethought  me  and  smiled 
As  the  truth  flashed  o'er  me. 

Of  course,  it  was  only  his  hand 

Freeing  the  bass 

Of  his  old  Amati,  grand 

In  the  silence'  face. 

Rummaging  up  and  down, 
Froni  string  to  string, 
Bidding  the  discords  drown. 
The  harmonies  spring. 

Where  tides  and  tide-winds  rove 
Far  out  from  land. 
On  the  ocean  of  music  a-move 
At  the  will  of  his  hand. 

Sobbing  and  grieving  now, 
Now  glad  as  a  bird, 
Thou,  thou,  thou 
Of  the  joys  unheard. 

Luminous  radiant  sea 
Of  the  sounds  and  time, 
Surely,  surely  by  thee 
Is  eternal  prime. 


(I 


ii'i 

1)1 


i 


f 


.a 

I 


59 


The 
Lodger 


W 


'1 


'\'\h 


i< 


i/, 


;i^ 


Holy  and  beautiful  deep, 
Spread  down  before 
The  imperial  coming  of  sleep, 
Endure,  endure ! 

And  sleep,  be  thou  the  ranger 
Over  it  wan. 

And  dream,  be  thou  no  stranger 
There  with  the  dawn. 

Then  wings  of  the  sun,  go  abroad 
As  a  scarlet  desire, 
Unwearied,  unwaning,  unawed, 
To  quest  and  aspire. 

Till  the  drench  of  the  dusk  you  drink 
In  the  poppy-field  "west ; 
Then  veer  and  settle  and  sink 
As  a  gull  to  her  nest. 

Wind, 

Away,  away ! 

And  hurry  your  phantom  kind 

Through  the  gates  of  day. 

Or  ever  the  king's  dark  cup 
With  its  studs  and  spars 


it'  'i 


The 
Lodger 


60 


'I 


Be  inverted,  and  earth  look  up 
To  the  shuddering  stars. 

Blaring  and  triumphing  now, 
Now  quailing  and  lone, 
Thou,  thou,  thou 
Of  the  joys  unknown  ! 

Unknown  and  wild,  wild. 
Where  the  merrymen  be. 
Sink  to  sleep,  soul  of  a  child, 
Slumber,  thou  sea ! 

All  this  his  fiddle  plays, 

And  many  a  thing 

As  strange,  when  his  mood  so  lays 

The  bow  to  the  string. 

Sleepless  I     He  never  sleeps 
That  I  can  find. 
I  marvel  how  he  keeps 
A  bit  of  his  mind. 

There  is  neither  sight  nor  sound 
In  the  world  of  sense. 
But  he  has  fathomed  and  found 
In  the  silvery  tense 


ill 
III 


■r 


i   i' 


f.ii 


6i 


The 
Lodger 


I 


f# 


Keen  cords  on  the  amber  wood. 
As  he  wrings  them  thence, 
Death  smiles  at  his  hardihood 
For  recompense. 

Oh  fair  they  are,  so  fair  ! 

No  tongue  can  tell 

How  he  sets  them  chiming  there 

Clear  as  a  bell. 


< 

; 

I'l 

M[ 

1 

1       t     .    ; 

li 


m 


An  orchard  of  birds  in  June, 
The  winds  that  stream. 
The  cold  sea-brooks  that  croon, 
The  storms  that  scream, 

The  planets  that  float  and  swing 
Like  buoys  on  the  tide, 
The  north-going  legions  in  spring, 
The  hills  that  abide, 

The  frigate-bird  clouds  that  range, 
The  vagabond  moon  — 
That  wilful  lover  of  change  — 
And  the  workaday  sun. 

Dying  summer  and  fall, 
Seasons  and  men 


The 
Lodger 


62 


Pt._"'-' 


And  herds,  he  has  them  all 
In  his  shadowy  ken. 

He  calls  and  they  come,  leaving  strife, 
Leaving  discord  and  death, 
Out  of  oblivion  to  life, 
Though  its  span  be  a  breath. 

There  they  are,  all  the  beautiful  things 
I  loved  and  lost  sight  of 
Long  since  in  the  far-away  springs, 
Come  back  for  a  night  of 

New  being  as  good  as  their  old, 
Aye,  better  in  fact, 

For  somehow  he  gilds  their  fine  gold,  — 
Gives  the  one  thing  they  lacked. 

The  breath,  aspiration,  desire. 
Core,  kindle,  control, 
Memory  and  rapture  and  fire,  — 
The  touch  of  man's  soul. 

How  know  the  true  master  ?     I  know 
By  my  joys  and  my  fears, 
For  my  heart  crumbles  down  like  the  snow 
With  spring  rain  into  tears.. 


1'  1 
,1, 


1!5! 


4i  :' 


v(i' 


m; 


k'l 


62 


63 


The 
Lodger 


11'. 


'. 


Now  I  am  a  precious  one ! 
\A^ith  nothing  to  do 
But  idle  here  in  the  sun 
And  gossip  with  you 

Of  a  stranger  you  have  not  seen, 
As  like  never  will. 
I  would  every  soul  had  a  screen, 
When  the  wind  sets  ill 


f,i! 


I   ii 


The 
Lodger 


In  the  world's  bleak  house,  like  this 
Strange  lodger  of  mine. 
His  presence  is  v^orse  to  miss 
Than  sun's  best  shine. 

I  put  no  thought  at  all 
Upon  the  end, 
If  only  I  may  call 
Such  a  man  friend. 

And  a  friend  he  is,  heart  light 
\A^ith  love  for  heft. 
Proud  as  silence,  whose  right 
Hand  ignores  his  left. 

Yes,  odd !  he  gives  his  name 
As  Spiritus. 


64 


^Pi 


65 


But  that  is  vague  as  a  flame 
In  the  wind  to  us. 

And  then  (but  not  a  breath 
Of  this!)  you  see. 
All  his  effects,  my  faith  ! 
Are  marked  D.  V. 

His  cape-coat  has  a  rip, 
But  for  all  that, 
(Folk  smile,  suggest  a  dip 
In  the  dyer's  vat,  — 

Those  purple  aldermen 
W^ho  roll  about 
In  coaches,  drive  till  ten. 
And  die  of  gout), 

I  think  he  finely  shows 
How  learning's  crumbs 
At  least  can  rival  those 
Of — 'st,  here  he  comes ! 


f'\ 


','t 


I  ; 

H 


I 


it 


! 

i 
J- 

'    i 

The 

Lodger 

I! 

Ii, 

ii 

1 

1 

1 

i 

) 

1 

1 

ii 

1 

)l 


^^ 


m 


1  ll 


f     ' 


Beyond  the  Gamut 

SOFTLY,  softly,  Niccolo  Amati ! 
What  can  put  such  fancies  in  your  head  ? 
There,  go  dream  of  your  blue-skied  Cremona, 
While  I  ponder  something  you  have  said. 

Something  in  that  last  low  lovely  cadence 
Piercing  the  green  dusk  alone  and  far, 
Named  a  new  room  in  the  house  of  knowl- 
edge. 
Waiting  unfrequented,  door  ajar. 

While  you  dream  then,  let  me  unmolested 
Pass  in  childish  wonder  through  that  door, — 
Breathless,  touch  and  marvel  at  the  beauties 
Soon  my  wiser  elders  must  explore. 

Ah,  my  Niccolo,  it 's  no  great  science 
We  shall  ever  conquer,  you  and  I. 
Yet,  w^hen  you  are  nestled  at  my  shoulder, 
Others  guess  not  half  that  we  descry. 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


66 


IV^ 


i«afi 


ir  head  ? 
remona, 
said. 

lence 

r, 

f  knowl- 


)lested 

tdoor,— 

beauties 


e 
oulder, 


As  all  sight  is  but  a  finer  hearing, 
And  all  color  but  a  finer  sound, 
Beauty,  but  the  reach  of  lyric  freedom. 
Caught  and  quivering  past  all  music's  bound ; 

Life,  that  faint  sigh  whispered  from  oblivion, 
Harks  and  wonders  if  we  may  not  be 
Five  small  w^its  to  carry  one  great  rhythmus, 
The  vast  theme  of  God's  new  symphony. 

As  fine  sand  spread  on  a  disc  of  silver, 
At  some  chord  which  bids  the  motes  com- 
bine, 
Heeding  the  hidden  and  reverberant  impulse. 
Shifts  and  dances  into  curve  and  line. 

The    round   earth,  too,  haply,  like   a  dust- 
mote. 
Was  set  whirling  her  assigned  sure  way, 
Round  this  little  orb  of  her  ecliptic 
To  some  harmony  she  must  obey. 

Did  the  Master  try  the  taut  string  merely. 
Give  a  touch,  and  she  must  throb  to  time  ? 
Think   you    how  his  bow  must  rouse  the 

echoes. 
Quailing  triumphing  on,  secure,  sublime ! 


1'  I 


•  ■  >'f 


H  > 
I'' 


1 


r;*^ 


I 


I  W 


if  I 


>  >t 


66 


67 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


I 


4'    1 


I 

I 


I  I 


t  k 


Ah,  thought  cannot  far  without  the  symbol ! 
Kelp  me,  little  brother,  hold  the  trend. 
Dear  good  flesh,  that  keeps  the  spirit  steady, 
Lest  it  faint,  grown  dizzy  at  thought's  end  ! 

Waves    of    sound    (Is    this    your    thought, 

Amati?), 
Climbing  into  treble  thin  and  clear. 
Past  the  silence,  change  to  waves  of  color, 
We  must  say,  when  eye  takes  place  of  ear  ? 

Not  a  bird-song,  but  it  has  for  fellow 
Some  wood-flower,  its  speechless  counter- 
part, 
Form  and  color  moulded  to  one  cadence. 
To  voice  something  of  the  wild  mute  heart. 

Thrushes,    we'll    suppose,    have    for    their 

tune-mates 
The  gold  languorous  lilies  of  the  glade ; 
And  the  whippoorw^ill,  that  plaintive  dreamer. 
Some    dark    purple   flower   that   loves   the 

shade. 

The  song-sparrow  tells  me  what  the  clover 
Nods  about  beneath  the  gorgeous  blue ; 


i« 


«■  !1 


m 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


68 


^n^mm 


mbol! 

• 

steady, 
i  end ! 

lought, 


olor, 
3f  ear  ? 


ounter- 

ice, 
heart. 

»r    their 

e; 

reamer, 

VGS   the 


clover 
He; 


68 


While  the  snowballs  tell  me  old  love-stories 
Thistle-birds  half  hinted  as  they  flew. 

April's  faith,  in  robin  at  his  vespers, 
Breathes  a  prayer  too  in  my  lilac  blooms. 
What  the  cloudy  asters  told  the  hillside, 
My  lone  rainbird  in  the  dusk  resumes. 

Bobolink  is  voice  for  apple  blossom. 
Breezy,  abundant,  good  for  human  joys ; 
Oriole  has  touched  the  burning  secret 
Poppies  hide  with  their  deliberate  poise. 

Tiny  twin-flowers,  what  are  they  but  fancies, 
Subtler  than  a  field-lark  can  express  ? 
Swallows  make  the  low  contented  twitter 
Lying  just  beyond  the  pansies'  guess. 

Yellowbird,  the  hot  noon's  warbler,  pierces 
Sense  where  tiger-lilies  may  not  pass. 
Are  not  crickets  and  all  field-wise  creatures 
Brahmins  of  the  universal  grass  ? 

Saffron  butterflies  and  mute  ephemera, 
Doubt  not,  have  their  songs  too,  could  we 
hear. 


69 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


'^'    /I 


I 

I    1 


t| 

i 


\l  ■ 


I 


■  W  I 


11 


11 


7( 


IM' 


Every  raindrop  is  a  sea  sonorous 
As  the  great  worlds  thundering  sphere  to 
sphere. 

There 's  no  silence  and  no  dark  forever. 
Clangoring  suns  to  us  are  placid  stars ; 
Swift-foot  lightning  with  his  henchman  thun- 
der 
Lags  behind  these  gnomes  in  Leyden  jars. 

Peal  and  flash  and  thrill  and  scent  and 
savour 

Pulse  through  rhythm  to  rapture,  and  con- 
trol,— 

Who  shall  say  how  far  along  or  finely  ?  — 

The  infinite  tectonics  of  the  soul. 

Low-bred  peoples,  Hottentots,  Basutos, 
Have  a  taste  for  scarlet  and  brass  bands. 
Our  friend  Monet,  feeling  red  repulsive. 
Sees  blue  shadows  in  pale  purple  lands. 

Sees  not  only,  but  instructs  our  seeing ; 
Taught  by  him  a  twelvemonth,  we  confess 
Earth  once  robed  in  crude  barbaric  splendor. 
Has  put  on  a  softer  lovelier  dress. 


M 


I'*   i 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


70 


lere  to 


n  thun- 


jars. 
nt    and 
id  con- 

?  — 


DS, 

ids. 

e, 
Is. 

r, 

nfess 
lender, 


Feast  my  eyes  on  some  old  Indian  fabric. 
Centuries  of  culture  went  to  weave, 
And  I  groTV  the  fine  fastidious  artist, 
No  mere  shop-made  textile  can  deceive. 

Red  the  bass  and  violet  the  treble, 
Soul  may  pass  out  where  all  color  ends. 
Ends  ?    So  we  say,  meaning  where  the  eye< 

sight 
With  some  yet  unborn  perception  blends. 

You,  Amati,  never  saw  a  sunset,  — 
Hear  tornadoes  in  a  spider's  loom ; 
I,  at  my  wits*  end,  may  still  develop 
Unknown  senses  in  life's  larger  room. 

Superhuman  is  not  supernatural. 
How  shall  half-way  judge  of  journey  done  ? 
Shall  this  germ  and  protoplast  of  being 
Rest  mid-life  and  say  his  race  is  run  ? 

Softly  there,  my  Niccolo,  a  moment ! 
Shall  I  then  discard  my  simpler  joys  ? 
No,  for  look  you,  every  sense's  impulse 
Is  a  means  the  master  soul  employs. 


^ 


M 


1,1 


';  i\ 


70 


71 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


^I'J 


», 


'1^ 


u 


I      ■      ( 


Test  and  use  of  all  things,  lowest,  highest, 
Are  alone  of  import  to  the  soul ; 
Joys  of  earth  are  journey-aids  to  heaven, 
Garb  of  the  new  sainthood  sane  and  whole. 


I 


r 


'm 


Earth  one  habitat  of  spirit  merely, 
I  must  us.e  as  richly  as  I  may, — 
Touch  environment  with  every  sense-tip, 
Drink  the  well  and  pass  my  wander  way. 

Ah,  drink  deep  and  let  the  parching  morrow 
Quench  what  thirst   its    newer   need    may 

bring ! 
Slake  the  senses  now,  that  soul  hereafter 
Go  not  forth  a  starved  defrauded  thing. 

Not  for  sense  sake  only,  but  for  soul  sake; 
That  when   soul  must   shed  the  leaves   of 

sense. 
Sun  and  sap  may  solace  and  support  her, 
Stored  in  those  green  hours  for  her  defence. 

Shall  the  grub  deny  himself  the  rose-leaf 
That  he  may  be  moth  before  his  time  ? 
Shall  the  grasshopper  repress  his  drumbeats 
For  small  envy  of  the  kingbird's  chime  ? 


I 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


72 


m^^fm 


hest, 

ren, 
/hole. 


-tip, 
/ay. 

lorrow 
;d    may 

reafter 

il  sake; 
;aves   of 

rt  her, 
efence. 

leaf 

i? 

imbeats 

e? 


Certain  half-men,  never  touched  by  worship, 
Soil  the  goodly  feast  they  cannot  use ; 
Others,   maimed  too,   holding  flesh   a  hin- 
drance. 
Vilify  the  bounty  they  refuse. 

He  *s  most  man  who  loves  the  purple  shad- 
ows, 
Yet  must  love  the  flaring  autumn  too,  — 
FoUo^v  when  the  skrieling  pipes  bid  for\vard, 
Lie  and  gaze  for  hours  into  the  blue. 

He  would  have  gone  down  with  Alexander, 
Quelling  unknown  lands  beneath  the  sun; 
Watched   where    Buddha   in   the    Bo  tree 

shadows 
Saw  this  life's  web  woven  and  undone; 

Freed  his  stifled  heart  in  Shakespeare's  peo- 
ple, 
Sweet  and  elemental  and  serene ; 
Dared  :he  "i-'^mown  with  Blake  and  Galileo ; 
Fronted  death  with  Daulac's  seventeen. 

So  shall  mighty  peace  possess  his  spirit 
Whom  the  noonday  leads  alone  apart. 


4 

\ 


f  !' 


I  •  I 


t'M 


72 


73 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


III 


I 


!! 


11 


If 


I 


Through  the  wind-clear  early  Indian  sum- 
mer, 

Where  no  yearning  more  shall  move  his 
heart. 

Wise  and  foot-free,  of  the  tranquil  tenor. 
He  shall  wayfare  with  the  homeless  tides ; 
Time  enough,  when  life  allures  no  longer, 
To  frequent  the  tavern  death  provides. 

Life  be  neither  hermitage  nor  revel ; 
Lent  or  carnival  alone  "were  vain ; 
Sin  and  sainthood —  Help  me,  little  brother. 
With  your  largo  finder-tnought  again ! 

Lift,  uplift  me,  higher  still  and  higher ! 
Climb  and  pause  and  tremble  and  plunge  on. 
Till  I,  toiling  after  you,  come  breathless 
Where  the  mountain  tops  are  touched  with 
dawn ! 

Dark  this  valley  world ;    and  drenched  with 

slumber 
V/e  have  kept  the  centuries  of  night. 
Cry,  Amati,  pierce  the  waiting  stillness 
Tremulous  with  forecast  of  the  light ! 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


74 


£ 


i  Si 


m 

in 


sutn- 
76  his 


or, 
des ; 
ger, 


)rother, 
I 

>    • 

jnge  on, 

ess 

led  with 


Ltd  with 


iss 


Cry,  Amati !    Melt  the  twilight  dirges 

In  **  Te  Deums  "  fit  for  marching  men  ! 

*'  Good,"  the  days  are  chorusing,  **  shall  tri- 
umph ;  *' 

Though  the  far-off  morrows  whisper, 
"When?" 

What  is  good  ?    I  hear  your  soft  string  an- 
swer, 
"  I  am  that  whereon  the  round  w^orld  leans, 
I  am  every  man's  poor  guess  at  wisdom ; 
Evil  is  the  soul's  misuse  of  means. 

**  Up  through  me,  with  melody  and  meaning. 
Well  the  hoods  of  being  or  subside, 
The  first  dim  desire  of  self  for  selfhood, 
The  last  smile  that  puts  all  self  aside. 

"  Hate  is  discord  lessening  through  the  ages; 
Anger  a  false  note,  fear  a  slackened  string. 
Key  thy  soul  up  to  the  wiser  manhood, 
Gentler  lovelier  joy  from  spring  to  spring !  " 

Kere  in  turn  I  help  you,  little  brother. 
Half  surmise  v^^hat  you  have  half  explained. 
Store  it  by  to  ripen,  and  repeat  it 
Long  hereafter  as  a  glimpse  you  gained. 


75 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


1) 
(I 


i'^ll 


I 


'  :  A 


V.'^ 


1  h 

If.   iVM 


'I  '  \ 


^z^ 


wmk 


si  <r 

r 


(' 


It 


When  the  nineteenth  century  was  dying, 
From  a  strolling  hand  that  held  you  dear, — 
Appanage  of  time  put  in  your  keeping 
For  my  far-off  heritor  to  hear. 

I  imagine  how  his  eye  will  kindle 
When  he  fondles  you  as  I  do  no\v,  — 
Bends  above  you  wooing  like  a  lover, 
"While  you  yield  him  all  your  heart  knows 
Low. 


Ii:i 


\k 


m 


m 


I  shall  have  been  dust  a  thousand  summers, 
But  my  dear  unprofitable  dreams 
Shall  be  part  of  all  the  good  that  thrills  you 
In  the  oversoul's  orchestral  themes. 

What    is    good?     While   God's    unfinished 

opus 
Multitudinous  harmony  obeys. 
Evil  is  a  dissonance  not  a  discord. 
Soon  to  be  resolved  to  happier  phrase,  — 

From  time  immemorial  permitted, 
Lest  the  too  sweet  melody  grow  tame. 
And,  untouched  of  pathos  or  of  daring, 
Hearts  should  never  know  what  hearts  pro- 
claim : 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


76 


ying, 
dear,— 

ig 


r, 

rt  knows 


jummers, 

rills  you 
es. 

infinished 


ase, — 


me, 
ing, 
earts  pro- 


76 


The  unstained  unconquerable  valor. 
The  unflinching  loyalties  of  love. 
Or  if  evil  be  at  worst  a  blunder 
No  musician  ever  could  approve. 

The  mere  bungling  of  a  hand  that  faltered,  - 
Mine  or  his  who  bade  the  planets  poise,  — 
What  a  thing  unthinkable  for  smallness 
Is  your  frayed  E  string  one  touch  destroys. 

How  that  sea-gull  out  across  the  bay  there 
Rows  himself  at  leisure  up  the  blue  ! 
Evil  the  mere  eddy  from  his  wing-sweep, 
Good  the  morning  path  he  must  pursue. 

Good,  you  think,  and  evil  live  together. 
Both  persisting  on  from  change  to  change 
Through  interminable  conservation,  — 
Primal  powers  no  ruin  can  derange  ? 

Deed  and  accident  alike  unending 
By  eternal  consequence  of  cause  ? 
No.   For  good  is  impetus  to  Godward ; 
Evil,  but  our  ignorance  of  laws. 

Say  I  let  you,  spite  of  all  endeavor. 
Mar  some  nocturne  by  a  single  note ; 


77 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


-I 

ri 


m 


H   i 


li 


If 


(I 


^^-^^.t. 


!kit::.X.  a'L 


,^"~    ,.^JVJ^. 


^iw^'*"f""«9==' 


qtjipmw-L 


n      I 


5),  ., 


i 


Is  there  immortality  of  discord 

In  your  failure  to  preserve  the  rote  ? 

When  the  sound  shall  pass  my  sense's  con- 
fines, 
Melt  away  to  color  or  thin  flame, 
Does  it  still  malinger  in  the  prism, 
Falsify  the  crucible  with  shame  ? 

Hardly.   For  the  melody  and  marring, 
When  they  put  the  dear  oblivion  on, 
Are  become  as  fresh  clay  for  the  potter, 
Neither  good  nor  bad,  for  use  anon. 

Blighted  rose  and  perfect  shall  commingle 
In  one  excellence  of  garden  mould. 
Soul  transfusing  comeliness  or  blemish 
Can  alone  lend  beauty  to  the  old. 

While    the    streams   go   down   among   the 

mountains. 
Gathering  rills  and  leaving  sand  behind, 
Till  at  last  the  ocean  sea  receives  them, 
And  they  lose  themselves  among  their  kind, 


i 


ii 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


78 


i  ] 


ie's  con- 


tter, 

mingle 
lish 

long   the 

ehind, 
em, 
eir  kind, 


Man,  the  joy-born  and  the  sorrow-nurtured, 
(One   with    nothingness   though    all   things 

be, — 
Great  lord  Sirius  and  the  moving  planets 
Fleet  as  fire-germs  in  the  torn-up  sea, — ) 

Linked  to  all  his  half-accomplished  fellows, 
Through  unfrontiered  provinces  to  range, 
Man  is  but  the  morning  dream  of  nature 
Roused   by  some  wild   cadence   weird    and 
strange. 

Slowly  therefore,  Niccolo,  and  softly, 
With  more  memories  than  tongue  can  tell. 
Lower  me  down  the  slope  of  life,  and  leave  me 
Knowing  the  hereafter  will  be  well. 

Close  with,  **  Love  is  but  the  perfect  knowl- 
edge, 
The  one  thing  no  failure  can  befall ; 
Lovingkindness  betters  loving  credence ; 
Love  and  only  love  is  best  of  all." 

Beauty,  beauty,  beauty,  sense  and  seeming, 
W;.h  the  soul  of  truth  she  calls  her  lord  ! 
Stars  and  men  the  dust  upon  her  garment ; 
Hope  and  fear  the  echoes  of  her  word. 


78 


79 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


'   I 


14'' 


1, 


mri 


m^^'^m^ 


How  escape  we  then,  the  rainbow's  brothers, 
Endless  being  w^ith  each  blade  and  sod  ? 
Dust    and    shadow    between    whence    and 

whither, 
Part  of  the  tranquillity  of  God. 


Ill 


Beyond 

The 

Gamut 


80 


It  II' 


,li 


M 

f  ^ 


n 


h 


\'i  i'   I' 


I, 


Some,  like  the  tiny  red  one  there, 

He  never  lets  go  far  ; 

And  some  he  has  sent  to  the  roof  of  the  tent 

To  swim  without  a  jar. 

So  white  and  still  they  seem  to  hang. 
You  wonder  if  he  forgot 
To  reckon  the  time  of  their  return 
And  measure  their  golden  lot. 

Can  it  be  that,  hurried  or  tired  out. 
The  hand  of  the  juggler  shook  ? 
O  never  you  fear,  his  eye  is  clear, 
He  knows  them  all  like  a  book. 

And  they  will  home  to  his  hand  at  last, 
For  he  pulls  them  by  a  cord 
Finer  than  silk  and  strong  as  fate, 
That  is  just  the  bid  of  his  word. 

Was  ever  there  such  a  sight  in  the  world  ? 
Like  a  wonderful  winding  skein, — 
The  way  he  tangles  them  up  together 
And  ravels  them  out  again  ! 

He  has  so  many  moving  now^, 
You  can  hardly  believe  your  eyes  ; 


Hj 


The 
Juggler 


82 


he  tent 


LSt, 


vorld  ? 


And  yet  they  say  he  can  handle  twice 
The  number  when  he  tries. 

You  take  your  choice  and  give  me  mine, 
I  know  the  one  for  me, 
It 's  that  great  bluish  one  low  down 
Like  a  ship's  light  out  at  sea. 

It  has  not  moved  for  a  minute  or  more. 
The  marvel  that  it  can  keep 
As  if  it  had  been  set  there  to  spin 
For  a  thousand  years  asleep  ! 

If  I  could  have  him  at  the  inn 

All  by  myself  some  night,  — 

Inquire  his  country,  and  where  in  the  world 

He  came  by  that  cunning  sleight ! 

Where  do  you  guess  he  learned  the  trick 
To  hold  us  gaping  here. 

Till  our  minds  in  the  spell  of  his  maze  almost 
Have  forgotten  the  time  of  year  ? 

One  never  could  have  the  least  idea. 
Yet  why  be  disposed  to  twit 
A  fellow  who  does  such  wonderful  things 
With  the  merest  lack  of  wit  ? 


1^1 


i 

n 


82 


83 


The 
Juggler 


:• 


(• 


i/j 


.^. 


.%. 


^^"^     ^^'oO. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


■  50     '■^■- 

^  m 


1:25  i  1.4 


2.5 
22 

M 

1.8 


!.6 


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<> 


I. 


Likely  enough,  when  the  show  is  done 
And  the  balls  all  back  in  his  hand, 
He  *11  tell  us  why  he  is  smiling  so. 
And  we  shall  understand. 


r 


I 


I!  'I' 


rii 


m 


The 

Juggler 


84 


done 
i, 


Hack  and  Hew 

HACK  and  Hew  were  the  sons  of  God 
In  the  earlier  earth  than  now ; 
One  at  his  right  hand,  one  at  his  left, 
To  obey  as  he  taught  them  how. 

And  Hack  was  blind  and  Hew  was  dumb 
But  both  had  the  wild,  wild  heart ; 
And  God's  calm  will  was  their  burning  will 
And  the  gist  of  their  toil  was  art. 

They  made  the  moon  and  the  belted  stars. 
They  set  the  sun  to  ride ; 
They  loosed  the  girdle  and  veil  of  the  sea. 
The  wind  and  the  purple  tide. 

Both  flower  and  beast  beneath  their  hands 

To  beauty  and  speed  outgrew, 

The  furious  fumbling  hand  of  Hack, 
And  the  glorying  hand  of  Hew. 


f 


84 


8s 


Hack 

And 

Hew 


m 


/ 


It' 


m 

^  ■  .1 


n 
■It- 


3'    ^ 

(I    'f 
lit 


'1: 


•  1 


Then,  fire  and  clay,  they  fashioned  a  man, 
And  painted  him  rosy  brown ; 
And  God  himself  blew  hard  in  his  eyes : 
*♦  Let  them  burn  till  they  smoulder  down  !  " 

And  "There!"    said  Hack,  and  ** There!" 

thought  Hew, 
**  We  '11  rest,  for  our  toil  is  done." 
But  *'  Nay,"  the  Master  Workman  said, 
**  For  your  toil  is  just  begun. 

**  And  ye  who  served  me  of  old  as  God 
Shall  serve  me  anew  as  man. 
Till  I  compass  the  dream  that  is  in  my  heart. 
And  perfect  the  vaster  plan." 

And  still  the  craftsman  over  his  craft. 
In  the  vague  white  light  of  dawn, 
With  God's  calm  will  for  his  burning  will, 
While  the  mounting  day  comes  on. 

Yearning,  wind-swift,  indolent,  wild. 
Toils  with  those  shadowy  two,  — 
The  faltering  restless  hand  of  Hack, 
And  the  tireless  hand  of  Hew. 


Hack 

And 

Hew 


86 


man, 

es: 
own!" 

:here!" 


aid, 

od 

ly  heart, 

't, 

g  will, 


86 


OUT   through    the  hills  of 
midnight, 
Hurtling  and  thundering  on. 
The   night   express  from  the 

outer  world 
Speeds  for  the  open  of  dawn. 

Out   of  the  past  and  gloom- 
wrack, 
Out  of  the  dim  and  yore. 
Freighted  as  train  or  caravan 
Was  never  freighted  before ; 


): 


i 


tki 


1 


fi' 


n 


f 


I'f  i  M 


V      :     ,1 


'   I 


lili' 


Built  when  the  Sphinx's  query 

V/as  new  on  the  lips  of  peace  ; 

Hurled  through  the  aching  and  hollow  years 

Till  time  shall  have  release ; 

Stealing  ard  swift  as  a  shadow, 
Sinuous,  urging,  and  blind, 
Unpent  as  a  joy  or  the  flight  of  a  bird, 
With  oblivion  behind ; 

Down  to  the  morrow  country 

Into  the  unknown  land  ! 

And  the  Driver  grips  the  throttle-bar ; 

Our  livest  are  in  his  hand. 

The  sleeping  hills  awake  ; 

A  tremor,  a  dread,  a  roar ; 

The  terror  is  flying,  is  come,  is  past; 

The  hills  can  sleep  once  more. 

A  moment  the  silence  throbs. 
The  dark  has  a  pulse  of  fire  ; 
And  then  the  wonder  of  time  is  gone, 
A  wraith  and  a  desire. 

Demonish,  toiling,  grim, 
Ip  the  ruddy  furnace  flare. 


The 

Night 

fixpresa 


88 


ow  years 


•d, 


ar; 


e, 


Who  stands  at  his  elbow  there  ?  ' 

Can  it  be,  this  thing  like  a  shred 

Uf  the  firmament  torn  away 

Is  a  boarded  train  that  Death  and  his  crew 

Consorted  to  waylay  ?  ^^ 

His  wreckers,  grinning  and  lean. 
Are  lurkmg  at  every  curve  • 

He^a^s^?."-''^'  P^^^'  ^^*^  ^^^  throttle.bar; 
rie  Has  the  iron  nerve.  ' 

We  are  travelling  safe  and  warm 
With  our  little  baggage  of  cares^* 

U^hHH  ^^^  ^^^  P^"^  '^^*  y^t  would  come 
unbidden  and  unawares  ? 

The  lonely  are  lonely  still  • 
And  the  friend  has  another  friend  • 
Only  the  idle  heart  inquires  ' 

1  he  distance  and  the  end. 

We  pant  up  the  climbing  grade, 

And  coast  on  the  tangent  mile. 

While  the  Driver  toys  with  the  throttle-bar 

And  gathers  the  track  in  his  smile  ^'^^ 


M 


88 


89 


The 

Night 

Express 


ll! 


Iff      ' 

M 

nil 

I    ) 


s . 


I 


fill  a 


The  dreamer  weary  of  dreams, 
The  lover  by  love  released, 
Stricken  and  whole,  and  eager  and  sad, 
Beauty  and  waif  and  priest, 

All  these  adventure  forth. 

Strangers  though  side  by  side, 

With  the  tramp  of  time  in  the  roaring  wheels. 

And  haste  in  their  shadowy  stride. 

The  star  that  races  the  hills 

Show^s  yet  the  night  is  deep ; 

But  the  Driver  humors  the  throttle-bar ; 

So,  you  and  I  may  sleep. 

For  He  of  the  sleepless  hand 

Will  drive  till  the  night  is  done  — 

Will  watch  till  morning  springs  from  the  sea. 

And  the  rails  stand  gold  in  the  sun  ; 

Then  he  will  slow  to  a  stop 

The  tread  of  the  driving-rod, 

When  the  night  express  rolls  into  the  dawn  ; 

For  the  Driver's  name  is  God. 


The 

Night 

Express 


go 


^ 


heels, 


T\ 


he  sea, 


dawn ; 


90 


n 


$ 


DiyisliinllilRI 


"  TNUSTMAN,  dustman  !  " 
Ji^Through    the    deserted 
square  he  cries, 

And  babies  put  their  rosy  fists 

Into  their  eyes. 


There  's  nothing  out  of  No- 
man's-land 

So  drowsy  since  the  world 
began, 

As  *'  r      :man,  dustman, 

Dustma    ." 

He  goes  his  village   round  at 

dusk 
From  door  to  door,  from  day 

to  day ; 


ti 


And  when  the  children  hear  his  step 
They  stop  their  play. 

**  Dustman,  dustman  !  " 
Far  up  the  street  he  is  descried, 
And  soberly  the  twilight  games 
Are  laid  aside. 

•*  Dustman,  dustman  ! " 

There,  Drowsyhead,  the  old  refrain, 

•*  Dustman,  dustman  !  " 

It  goes  again. 

Dustman,  dustman, 
Hurry  by  and  let  me  sleep. 
When  most  I  wish  for  you  to  come, 
You  always  creep. 

Dustman,  dustman. 
And  when  I  want  to  play  some  more. 
You  never  then  are  further  off 
Than  the  next  door. 

"  Dustman,  dustman !  " 
He  heckles  down  the  echoing  curb, 
A  step  that  neither  hopes  nor  hates 
Ever  disturb. 


The 
Dustman 


92 


lis  step 


d, 


efrain, 


»> 


•*  Dustman,  dustman  I 
He  never  varies  from  one  pace, 
And  the  monotony  of  time 
Is  in  his  face. 

And  some  day,  with  more  potent  dust 
Brought  from  his  home  beyond  the  deep. 
And  gently  scattered  on  our  eyes 
We,  too,  shall  sleep,  —  ' 

Hearing  the  call  we  know  so  well 
Fade  softly  out  as  it  began, 
**  Dustman,  dustman. 
Dustman  I" 


ii 


:!{ 


come, 


e  more, 
f 


ilJI 


curb, 
hates 


92 


93 


The 
Dustman 


l\ '  «, 


The  Sleepers 


THE    tall    carnations    down    the    garden 
walks 
Bowed  on  their  stalks. 

Said  Jock-a-dreams  to  John-a-nods, 

**  What  are  the  odds 

That  we  shall  wake  up  here  within  the  sun, 

When  time  is  done, 

And  pick  up  all  the  treasures  one  by  one 

Our  hands  let  fall  in  sleep?"      **  You  have 

begun 
To  mutter  in  your  dreams," 
Said  John-a-nods  to  Jock-a-dreams, 
And  they  both  slept  again. 

The  tall  carnations  in  the  sunset  glow 
Burned  row  on  row. 


Vl 


Said  John-a-nods  to  Jock-a-dreams, 
"  To  me  it  setms 

A  thousand  years  since  last  you  stirred  and 
spoke, 


The 
Sleepers 


94 


1  •  i'.  i ' 


i 


garden 


:he  sun, 

'  one 
'ou  have 


And  I  awoke. 

Wis  brothers  in  their  blessed  sleep  ?  "  «.  Thev 
choke,  •'^ 

Who  mutter  in  their  nods," 

Said  Jock-a-dreams  to  John-a-nods. 

And  they  both  slept  again. 

The  tall  carnations  only  heard  a  sigh 
Of  dusk  go  by. 


w 


1)1 


rred  and 


I  ; 


94 


95 


The 
Sleepers 


■II  I    luf  iwi 


I 


At  the 
Granite  Gate 

THERE  paused  to  shut  the 
dooi 
A  fellow  called  the  Wind. 
With  mystery  before, 
And  reticence  behind, 

A  portal  waits  me  too 
In  the  glad  house  of  spring. 
One  day  I  shall  pass  through 
And  leave  you  wondering. 

It  lies  beyond  the  marge 
Of  evening  or  of  prime, 


iM 


mt 


Silent  and  dim  and  large, 
The  gateway  of  all  time. 

There  troop  by  night  and  day 
My  brothers  of  the  field ; 
And  I  shall  know  the  way 
Their  woodsongs  have  revealed. 

The  dusk  will  hold  some  trace 
Of  all  my  radiant  crew 
\Vho  vanished  to  that  place, 
Ephemeral  as  dew. 

Into  the  twilight  dun, 
Blue  moth  and  dragon-fly 
Adventuring  alone,  — 
Shall  be  more  brave  than  I  ? 

There  innocents  shall  bloom 
And  the  white  cherry  tree. 
With  birch  and  willow  plume 
To  strew  the  road  for  me. 

The  wilding  orioles  then 
Shall  make  the  golden  air 
Heavy  with  joy  again. 
And  the  dark  heart  shall  dare 


i 


r 


<<ii| 


97 


At  the 

Granite 

Gate 


At  the 

Granite 

Gate 


Resume  the  old  desire, 

The  exigence  of  spring 

To  be  the  orange  fire 

That  tips  the  world's  gray  wing. 

And  the  lone  wood-bird  —  Hark, 
The  whippoorwill  night  long 
Threshing  the  summer  dark 
With  his  dim  flail  of  song !  — 

Shall  be  the  lyric  lift, 
When  all  my  senses  creep. 
To  bear  me  Ihrough  the  rift 
In  the  blue  range  of  sleep. 

And  so  I  pass  beyond 
The  solace  of  your  hand. 
But  ah,  so  brave  and  fond ! 
Within  that  morrow  land. 

Where  deed  and  daring  fail. 
But  joy  forevermore 
Shall  tremble  and  prevail 
Against  the  narrow  door, 


98 


\ 

ii 

tl 

J 

f 

1; 

11 

1 

1 

1 

1 

Where  sorrow  knocks  too  late 
And  grief  is  overdue,  ' 

Beyond  the  granite  gate 
There  will  be  thoughts  of  you. 


98 


99 


At  the 

Granite 

Gate 


[,"'  1  ^ 


i  ! 


\  "> 


I 


Exit  Anima 


**  Hospes  comesque  corporis, 
Quae  nunc  abitis  in  loca  ?  '* 

CEASE,  Wind,  to  blow 
And    drive    the    peopled 
snow, 
And  move  the  haunted  arras 

to  and  fro. 
And  moan  of  things  I  fear  to 

know 
Yet  would    rend    from  thee. 

Wind,  before  I  go 
On  the  blind  pilgrimage. 
Cease,  Wind,  to  blow. 

Thy  brother  too, 

I  leave  no  print  of  shoe 


In  all  these  vasty  rooms  I  rummage  through, 

No  word  at  threshold,  and  no  clue 

Of  whence  I  come  and  whither  I  pursue 

The  search  of  treasures  lost 

When  time  was  new. 

Thou  janitor 

Of  the  dim  curtained  door, 

Stir  thy  old  bones  along  the  dusty  floor 

Of  this  unlighted  corridor. 

Open !     I  have  been  this  dark  way  before  ; 

Thy  hollow  face  shall  peer 

In  mine  no  more 

Sky,  the  dear  sky  I 

Ah,  ghostly  house,  good-by ! 

I  leave  thee  as  the  gauzy  dragon-fly 

Leaves  the  green  pool  to  try 

His  vast  ambition  on  the  vaster  sky,  — 

Such  valor  against  death 

Is  deity. 

What,  thou  too  here, 

Thou  haunting  whisperer  ? 

Spirit  of  beauty  immanent  and  sheer. 

Art  thou  that  crooked  servitor. 


ffl 


xoi 


Exit 

Anima 


ri^ 


^^PIF 


^^x^i^ilWP 


'  '1 

M 

i  " 

Done  with  disguise,  from  whose  malignant 

leer 
Out  of  the  ghostly  house 
I  fled  in  fear  ? 

0  Beauty,  how 

1  do  repent  me  now, 

Of  all  the  doubt  I  ever  could  allow 
To  shake  me  like  the  aspen  bough ; 
Nor  once  imagine  that  unsullied  brow 
Could  wear  the  evil  mask 
And  still  be  thou  1 

Bone  of  thy  bone. 

Breath  of  thy  breath  alone, 

I  dare  resume  the  silence  of  a  stone, 

Or  explore  still  the  vast  unknown, 

Like  a  bright  sea-bird  through  the  morning 

blown, 
With  all  his  heart  one  joy, 
From  zone  to  zone. 

Scituate,  June,  1895. 


if  1:1 


Exit 

Anima 


102 


1^1, 


,    (, 


malignant 


9 

row 


le, 


e  morning 


TK«  CyftTttt  Pftt 


jMOCCCXCV 


102 


